Tug-at-your-heartstrings new adult first love story.
What starts as a bet to avoid cleanup duties at her minimum wage cashier job, wins Amelie D'Amico more than she's ever hoped for.
When Ben, a cute customer who always checkouts at her register, fi...
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In the afternoon, bags of pies and salads in hand, we enter Ben's parents' unrecognizable apartment. Marguerite made it look like a grand reception hall with elaborate fall-color decorations. The furniture was re-arranged, leaving space for musicians and featuring a table for twenty spanning both the living and the dining room.
"We should've baked more pies," I tell Ben when an unfamiliar blond woman rushes into the hallway, wiping her hands on an apron.
"Ben, I need you to see why the damn turkeys Mom has dumped on me are not done yet. What's the point of having double ovens if neither of them works?" Ben's about to say something when she notices me.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. You must be Amélie. I'm Klara." She shakes my gloved hand with her damp one. "This morning was a disaster. I need Ben to rescue me. Mom and Dad are eager to show you off to everyone," Klara tells me, while dragging Ben into the kitchen.
She's the first one in the sea of new people. A constant stream of names and faces blurs together when they introduce themselves as members of the orchestra Marguerite performs with on occasion, Max's former colleagues, friends of the family, neighbors. I put my best fake smile on and search for a way to escape.
I skitter away from the jovial introductions. I need a drink, or to leave, or both. I watch the pageantry from my corner, comparing every party I've attended to this much higher-end affair. Being the person who knows nobody when the rest of them keep exchanging familial hugs and handshakes reminds me, I don't know this side of Ben's life. I don't belong here. Mike's hulking frame appears in the doorway. I don't care about him, it's the cases of alcohol in his hands that draw me out of the self-imposed time-out.
"Having fun yet?" Mike pours us two glasses of red.
"Define fun. Do I regret forfeiting a relaxing afternoon at home eating a slice of store-bought pumpkin pie and an overcooked turkey breast, watching something mind-numbing for this anxiety-inducing parade of people I've never seen and probably won't ever see again? You bet I do. But it's Ben's family and friends. I can't run away. At least I shouldn't. But Angie's going to be thrilled. Crowds and meeting strangers is her thing."
"Where is the infamous Anige?"
"On her way. I wasn't home last night." There was no need to tell him that. "It's hard for her to get places before noon."
The apartment whirs with too many people trying to talk over each other, ready for food when Ben and Klara reappear with trays of appetizers. I volunteer to help in the kitchen. Mike joins. Arranging the last of the finger foods on the plates in the kitchen, we hear a dark-hued rich soprano crooning Somewhere over the rainbow.
"That's my Angie." I can't help but smile.
"What a voice," Mike says as we walk back into the room, now quieted by the heart-melting sincerity of Angie's singing. After years of hearing her, she never ceases to make me wonder how a human voice can be full of such spectacular beauty. Mike, me, and the rest of the audience forget about food, mesmerized, and wanting more of what she's giving us.
"She's beyond excellent," Tall whispers from behind. Max and Marguerite hover next to him.
"For once, I agree with you," I tell him and join the applause that breaks out when the song is over.
While Ben and Klara leave to get rid of the empty trays, Angie finds her way to where Marguerite, Max, Tall, Mike circle around me sipping on wine. I put mine down in time for her to grasp my shoulders in a quick hug.
"Eeek, we have a whole concert ahead; can I meet the musicians somewhere beforehand?" She directs her torrent of words at Marguerite.
"Sure, dear, but relax, it'll be great fun. We can use the office. Ben can take you. Give me five minutes to find the rest of them, and I'll meet you there."
"I'm Mike, by the way." Mike's large hand dwarfs Angie's as they don't let go of each other long enough for me to note their flushed faces. Angie turns the full voltage on and Mike's shining eyes express a similar level of interest. The vibes between these two are going to make it a much more entertaining party. Angie's found the next unfortunate victim to lap up her attention and bask in her glow. When, once in a blue moon, Angie sets her sights on a guy, she becomes irresistible. Mike stands no chance.
I sample my way through the Friendsgiving cornucopia of dishes: Pad Thai, Russian Olivier salad, Brazilian Pao de Queijo cheese bread, Turkish Fasoulia Green Beans, Ethiopian Injera Flatbread, and Chinese Stir Fry to start with. Every guest brought their favorite dish with them. I ignore the staples of roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, and gravy and finish my third glass of wine.
Ben regards my plate with suspicion. No matter. My second stomach, dedicated to desserts, doesn't let me down when the pies make an appearance. Other pastries, including my favorite eclairs, join the three pies Ben and I brought. Nonna's Ricotta Pies disappeared in minutes, and I'm trying not to beam when everyone asks for her recipe.
The food is good but watching Angie and Mike go from flirting to sizzling across the table is even better. Midway through dessert, Angie leans in and whispers into Mike's ear. Each drops one hand under the table, and their breaths grow heavier as their eyes burn holes in the festive tablecloth. I need an excuse to check out what they are up to. I push my fork off the table.
"Sorry," I say to no one in particular. I'm on glass number four of the delicious red and me not dropping utensils is the unusual part. I len to the side to bend down to retrieve it, and see what the hell is happening under the tablecloth.
"Stop it," Ben tells me. "Let them be." And hands me a spoon.
A spoon? How's that going to help me? I pour another glass. I can't taste it but it's the liquid courage that takes down my inhibitions. "Can you take me to the bathroom?"
"You've been here -"
"Please." Unsteady, I get up and hang on Ben's elbow. The bathroom in the hallway is occupied and he takes me to the bathroom in his parents' master suite. I drag him inside with me and lock the door.
"What do you—" Ben tries to talk, but I shut him up with a kiss and start doing what I imagine Angie and Mike were doing under the table. Ben's objections stop once I help him undo his belt and zipper and replace my hand with my mouth.
Teasing him is on my agenda, finishing him off, isn't. As I stand up, Ben bends me over the vanity. An orgasm tears through me. Ben follows suit, collapsing on my back. Panting and disheveled, I straighten up and do my best to erase any evidence of what we've been doing seconds before. We are not very successful. The freshly fucked look is unmistakable on both of us.
We fail to sneak back tothe table because the performances are about to begin. The eclectic theme thefood introduced earlier carries over into the music. Angie's the star of thishome-grown concert. I sneak my hand through the crook of Ben's elbow, lean myhead on Ben's shoulder and sink into the bliss of the music.
The quietsemi-circle of people isn't as intimidating anymore. Do they throw parties likethis for Christmas or the New Years? What about birthdays? What would it feellike to have gatherings full of family and friends to celebrate with those who knowme? Longing pumps into my heart. I rub my chest. The pain is tender but old. Awound that's never healed, torn open again and again by the dreams ofbelonging, of having more than Angie to call my people.
